


this terror

by proval



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1714592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proval/pseuds/proval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post 4x12, bit angsty. MIckey worried about where Ian's gone again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this terror

Mickey’d spent so much time pissed off that Ian was still in bed, he hadn’t factored in that he’d feel much worse when he wasn’t. This was the third time this had happened. This terror. _Jesus Christ_. 

He rolled up. He passed a heavy arm to wipe pointlessly at the rapidly disappearing drowsiness from his eyes. His fingers gripped the sheets below him.

“Yo, Ian?”

No answer. The first time this had happened, Mickey had gone straight into the front room. His chest had only started thumping again when he saw these reflections of the TV on pink cheeks fractionally above this big mound of blankets, and then the rest of Ian too. The pink eyes and the static orange hair poking up, _not_ anything, not anything like after they’d had sex all that time ago, but just as young as when he’d been peering up from under Mickey’s thighs and Mickey had dropped the tire iron.

“What ya watching?” Mickey had asked. And Ian just stared at it. It was some classic middle of night TV shit. There’d been no point in asking. What else was on at that time of night except for porn?

No one on the sofa now, though. Nothing. No blankets. No TV. No half empty bottle of beer. No peanut shells. No big flashing red-rimmed eyes.

Mickey’s nails scratched against the wall as he swung himself round to check the bathroom.

The second time this had happened, Ian had been in the bathroom. He’d been shivering, in the shower, under this fucking feeble spray of water. The water was cold and Ian hadn’t taken his boxers off. They were clinging to him, and his lips were dark and swollen and his eyelashes were all black under these low unmoving eyelids.

“Hey, Houdini,” Mickey had said. Hadn't been able to stop himself referencing that Ian had disappeared on him again. Ian kept pulling that shit and it didn’t stop terrifying him. “What? You miss the Gallagher shower or something? Turn the hot water on, man.”

Mickey had turned it on, not expecting Ian to do it himself. And then Ian’s eyes had shifted to stare up at him like Mickey’d done something terribly wrong. And Mickey had got a towel down and Ian had wrapped himself up in it, still glaring at Mickey. “Leave me alone.” Ian had muttered.

Mickey’s throat had closed in. But somehow he’d been still able to talk. “Trust me,” he said, “I’ll leave you the fuck alone when you’re warm and cosy and shit up in bed.”

No faint sounds of the showerhead now. No clinging sticky cotton and stagnant puddles on the uneven floor. No Ian curled into himself on the tiles. No slippy cold skin and goose bumps and accusing eyes. _This is you_. This is what you did.

_Fuck_. The house was as quiet as a trip home in the car after a bad run. Mickey found some smokes first then his phone.   
  
This fear just eclipsed everything. Nothing else was going on underneath it. You could almost hear it. It was like the high pitch buzzing of some broken appliance. (“Can we unplug that shitty microwave, it’s giving me a headache.” “Shut your fucking fly trap, Mandy. It takes about an hour to switch on.”) 

It wasn’t until the fourth ring that Ian answered.

“Hey Mick? What’s up?”

_Jesus Christ_. His voice was _rosy_ , like a May fucking morning. Mickey couldn’t say anything at all.

“Mickey?” A bit more hesitant now, a tiny bit of uncertainty, “You there?”

A long pause and then Mickey found his voice again. “Yes, I’m here.” He spat. Yes I’m here.

There was another bit of silence before Ian finally got it. God, could he be slow. “Mickey? You mad at me?”

“Why did you leave?”

“I just—I had all this energy. I needed to—I needed to do something. I’ve gone on a run.”

“Okay.” Mickey was slow with him, back. “Well how about this? Next time you decide you wanna take pictures of the goddamn sunrise, you wake me the fuck up. I swear to God, Gallagher, if you pull that disappearing shit on me one more time I’ll—”

“Okay, Mickey! Okay. I’m sorry. I am.”

It was so good to hear Ian’s voice like that, Mickey almost thought about straight up forgiving him. But he couldn’t. How Ian thought it could be fine to do shit like that was beyond nuts. To hell with manic fucking whatever.  

“Come home _now_.” Mickey didn’t hang up, yet, because he couldn’t shake the fear that Ian still wouldn’t come back.  

“I’m coming, Mick.”

And then he was gone. And Mickey stared down at his phone like it was going to turn into Ian or some shit. He got another smoke and a beer and wanted to shoot stuff but settled for running his hands through his hair and biting at his lip and flicking ash all over the goddamn kitchen floor.

And then the door opened and Ian was walking in, with sweat running over one cheek, and his red hair glued to his head, and this little swing in his step, like, like, he hadn’t been cold and closed up on the bathroom floor a couple of days ago, like he wanted a good bang, like he was about to go and shake his ass in front of a load of drooling queenie grandpas. _Jesus Christ_.

Mickey didn’t think he’d ever feel it go away, this terror. He didn’t think it would ever get any better.

“You okay, Mickey?” Ian rolled a sloppy hand embarrassedly through his hair.

“Am _I_ okay?” Asked Mickey, incredulous, immediately getting up to go and touch him. Yeah. Wrist, neck, back, waist, fingers. All real. All intact. Ian’s eyes were amused, so Mickey pushed him away, but he still watched them while he could. “Wake me up next time, Usain. Or I’ll throw those tatty fucking running shoes under the L.”

“I got it. I get it.”

“Ian, I’m not joking.”

“I get it.”

“Good.” 

“I mean, I need to get new running shoes, anyway.”

“Ian—”

Ian cut him off by sticking his tongue between Mickey’s teeth and pressing his body against Mickey’s, and then biting Mickey’s bottom lip, and then letting out this long cool breath of relief, and Mickey could feel Ian’s chest muscles relax against his as Ian’s fingers gripped his elbow and his other hand pulled at the shirt around the back of Mickey’s waist.

What? Was Mickey supposed to tell him to stop? Ask where this had come from? If Ian really suddenly wanted this? Hold him at arms length to try to get rid of the temptation? How? How?

Ian’s hand came up with the shirt in it, to pause at the nape of Mickey’s neck and direct his head hard into Ian’s mouth, angling it upwards so he could get at Mickey’s bottom lip, and then it came under his chin so Ian could point it up and scrape his teeth along Mickey’s jaw, and that gave Mickey a moment to do something but all that came out was the sound of his tongue unsticking and this long, low, dry “…Ian.”

The word sucked so bad at stopping Ian, it actually caused Ian’s hand to go down the front of Mickey’s pants, and Ian’s eyes to flash into Mickey’s, and Ian’s mouth to approach Mickey’s again.

“Wait.” Mickey said. Ian paused. How had he done that? How had he said that? Ian was hovering there. Mickey’s tongue went out to flick around his lips. Ian watched. It looked like it was fine. It looked like Ian would just start moving again. He didn’t though.

“What?” Ian’s voice was scratchy and patient, but his eyes were flicking from Mickey’s mouth to eyes and back again, and the pulse on the wrist pressed to Mickey’s belly was racing.

“The fuck’s going on with you?” Mickey asked. Everything was okay for a second. Ian seemed to consider the question. He tilted his head slightly. His eyes narrowed. And then no, no, no, _no_. Ian’s lips shakily turned down. His face paled. His hand came out of Mickey’s pants. He took a step back. He looked like, like he might turn right back into that unmoving pink face with the flickering TV in its eyes, like those red eyes that turned to face the wall, like those shivering arms and that accusing stare under the shower. Mickey’s mouth was open.

“You don’t want to…” Ian shook. A hand went up to wipe his lips. His cheeks were still slightly flush but waning fast. A drop of sweat was teetering on the edge of his jaw.

“What do you mean, like I don’t want you to get on me?” Mickey asked it like Ian was speaking lunacy, but Ian stopped looking at him.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“No, Ian.” Mickey gripped his shoulder. “Of course I fucking want to. _Jesus Christ_ , I want to. I’m just—It’s just—I’m scared, okay?”

Too late to take that back now. Ian’s eyes came back. They connected with Mickey’s and then down. “Scared of me?”

“Scared _for_ you.” Mickey tightened his grip. No, please don’t go away. You only just came back. “Ian? What’s happening?” 

And then Ian buckled over, and didn’t stop shaking even when Mickey held him tight in his arms and stroked his hands over his back and said “okay” “okay” because it wasn’t okay and Mickey hadn’t even tried to pretend it was okay for one more fantastic fuck so why was he now and Mickey’s fingers spread into Ian’s hair and Mickey wondered when exactly he’d become such a fucking pussy that he couldn’t even give Ian what he wanted. And then Ian stopped shaking and he pried himself away and dragged his knuckles down Mickey’s thighs as he positioned his head in front of Mickey’s groin, and started to unbuckle Mickey’s pants and Mickey couldn’t stop him this time. That would be fucking impossible.

“Mickey,” Ian said breathlessly, bringing a hand up to Mickey’s cock, and his eyes coming up and connecting with Mickey’s and _shit_. 

“Just promise me you won’t leave again, Gallagher.” The words came blurting out of Mickey’s mouth before he could stop them, _hell_ , before he’d even thought of them. They were just there.

Ian responded by taking Mickey’s cock in his mouth. When he came up again, just before he turned Mickey around so he could fuck him against the sofa, he murmured “I promise” somewhere near Mickey’s ear, and Mickey felt the words going through him like terror, and make him tremble all over.

No way. This feeling would never go away.


End file.
